The Mystery in Flat 6B, page 1
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ONE
It’s been less than an hour since me, Dad and my pet rat Spike ditched our old house and caught the bus to our new flat.
It’s in a big, squat block called Seaview Court, six storeys high and as wide as a football pitch.
The whole building looks gloomy, I think as the three of us walk towards it, with Spike peeking out of his plastic carry-case. There’s a heavy haze of fog almost hiding the top floor. Our floor, where we’ll find our flat. I haven’t seen it yet. And Dad forgot to take photos when he viewed it a couple of weeks ago.
“Look, JoJo – the removal team are here already!” Dad says brightly. He nods towards a parked van with ‘WE ♥ TO MOVE IT, MOVE IT!’ written on the side. It’s a pretty funny slogan and would’ve made me laugh – or sing it out loud – at any other time, but not today. Nothing seems too funny at the moment.
“OK, now what’s the code to get in?” Dad mumbles as we reach the glass doors of the entrance. He’s frowning at the rows of silver buttons on a panel. “Let me check that email I got from–”
Stepping in front of him, I drop my skateboard to the ground and quickly press three buttons: ‘6’, ‘A’ and then ‘Enter’. The door clicks open.
“Ah, of course the code is just the number of our flat,” Dad laughs at himself.
“Yep,” I reply, holding the door so Dad can go in first.
Honestly, Dad is super-smart in lots of ways. He was the manager of a whole store before it shut down last year. But he can be super-dumb with obvious stuff, like most adults.
“Right, let’s see how the guys are getting on,” says Dad.
We see straightaway. There are two lifts, but one has an ‘out of order’ sign on it. The whole of the entrance area is clogged up with piled-up cardboard boxes and furniture. I spot two men wearing T-shirts with ‘WE ♥ TO MOVE IT, MOVE IT!’ on the front. They’ve just turned our battered old piano on its end, and seem to be trying to figure out how to manoeuvre it into the one working lift.
By the looks of it, the piano will be even more battered than it already is once they finally get it into our flat. I told Dad not to take it with us. How many times have I said that I don’t want to play it anymore? Not with this annoying twitch I’ve got going on in my arm. But then I can’t just stand here and watch the piano get thunked about. It’s making twanging and plinking noises like it’s in distress…
“I’m going to take the stairs,” I tell Dad, holding Spike’s carrier in my left hand and my skateboard in my right.
“Huh? You sure, JoJo? It’s a long way up!” Dad calls after me, but I’m already through the door marked ‘STAIRS TO ALL FLOORS’.
At first glance the stairwell looks boring and dull – blank breeze-block walls, blank cement steps, no windows and too-bright overhead lights.
“Hello!” I call out, to test the echo.
“Hello!” my voice comes back, sounding odd as it bounces back down at me, sounding higher, more like a girl’s.
Me and Spike set off, and quickly climb up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Floor 1, Floor 2, Floor 3, Floor 4… it’s all just the same grey blankness, only broken up by big red plastic numbers beside each doorway.
But half-way up to Floor 5 I see something different. Something scrawled on the wall.
THIS WAY!!!!
I stop dead and stare at the bubble lettering and wonky arrow doodled in peach chalk.
“This way to what?” I say out loud, grinning to myself and talking to no one.
I hear a high-pitched sound like a giggle, but it was probably just Spike squeaking, protesting, feeling travel-sick in his carrier.
Giving myself a shake, I stare at the unexpected words again.
THIS WAY…to the next flight of stairs?
THIS WAY…to a mugger, huddling on the next floor, ready to nab my belongings?
At that thought, my heart begins to pump the words ‘RUN, RUN, RUN!’ to my brain, but my brain seems to have other ideas. It’s remaining perfectly calm, reminding me that muggers wouldn’t be interested in a battered skateboard or a black-and-white rat that looks a bit like a small cow.
So I carry on up another set of stairs and come across another arrow – peppermint green this time.
NEARLY THERE!!!!
I spy a smiley face drawn beside that message.
See? says my brain. That definitely doesn’t sound like something a mugger would do.
I really want to believe that as I nervously turn around the last bend in the stairwell, where I spot three things...
1)a giant red plastic number ‘6’ on the wall
2)a flurry of the most amazing, pastel clouds chalked onto the wall facing me
3)a girl sitting cross-legged on the landing, with a grin so wide it shows off a big gap between her front teeth.
She doesn’t look like a mugger. She has long dark hair and is wearing a baggy jumper, denim shorts and beat-up trainers. There’s a hole in the knee of her black tights. She’s twiddling a pack of chalks between her dusty, colour-smudged fingers.
“Boo!” says the girl.
And like the idiot that I am, I jump.
CHAPTER TWO
The cross-legged girl sniggers. I hate it when people snigger at me. But then she apologises, which is something, I suppose.
“Sorry – I didn’t mean to surprise you,” she says. Her eyes drop to the carry case. “Oh, wow! What’s in there?”
I bumble up the last few steps to the sixth floor landing. I hope my cheeks don’t look as hot pink as they feel.
“This is my pet rat Spike,” I say.
“Oh, he’s SO cute!” says the still-seated girl, her face at exactly the right height to look directly into Spike’s carrier. “I’ve never seen one with black-and-white splodges like that. He looks like–”
“A cow,” I interrupt, guessing what she’s going to say.
“A teeny-tiny little cow!” the girl laughs. “Moo…”
I can see Spike’s whiskers poking out of the cage door, sniffing the air, sniffing at this new person.
“I like the, uh, wall…” I say shyly. I point at the chalk clouds with my right hand, which chooses this moment to jerk. Luckily the girl’s still staring at Spike, and doesn’t notice.
“Thanks. Drawing’s my favourite thing,” she says, while gently stroking Spike’s quivering nose. “So, I haven’t seen you and Spike around here before. Are you visiting someone?”
“No, we’re moving in today,” I answer, feeling suddenly heavy with homesickness for our old house.
“Yeah? We live in 6M,” says the girl, now springing to her feet. “Which one are you moving into?”
“I think we must be at different ends of the corridor. Our flat is 6A,” I reply, hearing the creak, squeak and clunk of the lift door opening nearby, and the muffled, gruff voices of the removal men.
“Oh! Flat 6A?” says the girl, her eyebrows arching in surprise.
What does that mean? I worry to myself. Is the flat awful? Wrecked? Did someone die in there maybe? Is it haunted?
“What’s wrong with Flat 6A?” I ask out loud.
“Nothing – the problem is the flat next door to you,” says the girl.
Uh-oh. It’s bad enough that we’ve had to move, especially since I’ve got to start at a new school after the holidays. But if we end up having nightmare neighbours then that’s going to be zero fun.
“So who lives there?” I ask, though I’m slightly distracted by the sound of even more voices and clattering out in the corridor. I should go – Dad’ll wonder where I am.
“Well, that’s the thing,” says the girl, widening her eyes. “There’s someone being kept hidden in that flat. A child!”
“Huh? Like a hostage?” I say, with prickles of excitement and dread rushing across my chest.
“Yeah! Exactly! An actual hos–”
The stair door is suddenly yanked open.
“Ow!” I yelp as the girl elbows me sharply in the ribs.
But I know what that dig means.
It means I’ve just met the kidnapper from Flat 6B.
CHAPTER THREE
Hearing that you’re about to move next door to a hostage situation is a LOT to take in. And I haven’t had a second to picture what a kidnapper looks like.
Turns out it’s an older woman with short grey hair and glasses, dressed in ordinary trousers and a navy cardie, pulling one of those shopping bags on wheels.
“It’s her!” the girl mouths silently at me, as if I hadn’t worked it out. “Mrs Malone!”
“This is ridiculous!” the woman is shouting over her shoulder, while pausing half-way through the door. I recognise her rich, rolling accent; it’s Irish. I’m staring at an old Irish lady called Mrs Malone, who is apparently an actual kidnapper, according to the girl standing next to me. How nuts is this?
“How on earth are tenants meant to manage with only one lift working and someone’s furniture clogging the other one?!” Mrs Malone moans on.
“I’m sorry, love,” I hear one of the removal men call out. “If you give us five minutes you can use it before we carry on with–”
“Five minutes?! I don’t have fi
“It’s a bit crowded at mine,” the girl says. “My mum’s doing my auntie’s hair and my little brothers and our cousins are running around and–”
The older woman puts up her hand to let the girl know that’s enough.
“He’s moving in – right now,” the girl carries on, though Mrs Malone has picked up her wheelie bag and is carrying it down the stairs. “He’s going to be your next door neighbour!”
“Is he now?” says Mrs Malone, turning back and giving me a stern look. “Well, I hope your family’s not a noisy one. I can’t be doing with noise.”
“I, um, no, I don’t think so,” I mumble, feeling my cheeks flame again.
“I saw a piano,” the older woman announces. “Is it you that plays it?”
It feels like I’m being accused of something. I bet Mrs Malone has pianos on a Banned Noise list for being too loud.
“I did, but I don’t,” I mumble some more. “I mean, I haven’t played for a while.”
My arm jerks, as if to let everyone know what my problem is.
“Got a tic, have you?” Mrs Malone says bluntly.
“Kind of,” I say, feeling self-conscious. What business is it of hers?
“Well, I–”
Who knows what nosey Mrs Malone was about to say, because a certain noise interrupts her.
“Squeet!”
It’s a sudden, tiny sound, but I’m very thankful for it. It makes both Mrs Malone and the girl turn their attention away from me and my wonky arm.
“And what have you got in there?” Mrs Malone asks, nodding at the pet carrier.
“It, er, my rat,” I say, pretty sure that’s not going to go down well. It doesn’t.
“Vermin?! As a pet?!” Mrs Malone says, the disgust obvious in her voice.
“It’s very cute… it looks like a tiny cow, doesn’t it?” says the girl, trying to have my back, I suppose.
“A tiny cow?! Oh, for goodness sake... what nonsense are they teaching you lot at school nowadays?” Mrs Malone mutters, then stomps off down the concrete stairs again. But at the turning down to Floor 5, she looks back and has one last barbed comment to make. “I’ll let you get back to vandalising council property.”
Me and the girl both turn and look at the artwork on the wall. It’s hardly an ugly jumble of spray-painted tags!
“It’s just chalk,” says the girl, sounding deflated. “It would wash off…”
“Well, washing it off would keep you out of mischief, I suppose,” says Mrs Malone, her voice echoing as she disappears out of view.
The girl looks at me, rolls her eyes and motions for me to follow her out of the stairwell and into the long corridor of the sixth floor. Opposite us are the silver doors of the pair of lifts.
“She’s pretty fierce,” I say, in a low voice, just in case Mrs Malone has supersonic hearing.
“Told you,” laughs the girl.
“I mean, how can she not like your drawings?” I say, picturing the beautiful, billowing clouds, and wondering how Mrs Malone could consider them ‘vandalism’.
“Some people have no taste,” the girl says with a laugh. “But I don’t care. All the other neighbours on our floor like my drawings. They say it cheers the place up. Anyway, my flat’s this way.”
She’s waving vaguely to the right, where rows of red-painted doors stand like soldiers on parade.
“That way’s yours.”
More red doors to the left. It seems like the girl is going to accompany me all the way to the new flat, as if I could get lost in this straight line. As if I can’t see half a piano and a huffing removal man at the very end of the corridor.
“So I know your rat’s name,” says the girl. “But what’s yours?”
“JoJo,” I tell her, but I forget to ask hers in return, because my head is now whirling. Was she just fooling around about Mrs Malone hiding someone in her flat? You know, winding up the new kid?
“I’m Daria,” says the girl, then breaks into a skippetty sort of run. She does a quick spin as we get closer to ‘my’ flat, and holds both hands out to the door before it. “And this is Flat 6B…”
I catch up and stare at it. The red door gives nothing away. The silver handle and the letterbox look shiny and polished. Nothing screams ‘hostage-taker’.
“You aren’t serious about someone being hidden inside, are you?” I ask.
“Of course I am,” says Daria, looking hurt. “I first heard the two voices a while ago, when my brother Tomasz ran all the way to this end of the corridor. I caught him right here, and that’s when I heard stuff.”
“What stuff?” I ask.
“I couldn’t make out actual words, but it definitely sounded like an argument, and it was definitely Mrs Malone and a young girl’s voice,” says Daria. “I couldn’t concentrate ‘cause Tomasz was wriggling and shrieking. Then Mrs Malone came to the door, complaining about the noise.”
“Maybe she has a granddaughter living with her?” I suggest. “A boy in my old class has been brought up by his granny and grandad–”
“Nope!” says Daria, shaking her head. “Mum came running along with my other brother Jakub and apologised, and Mrs Malone told her that she lived on her own and liked things quiet.”
“Did you tell your mum about hearing a girl’s voice?” I ask.
“Yes, but Mum never really listens to me – she’s too busy and tired with the twins,” Daria says with a shrug. “She said I was probably just hearing the sound of a TV show. But I know it wasn’t that; I’ve come and hung out loads of times since then. And if I hear anything, then it’s always the same – Mrs Malone’s voice and the little girl’s.”
My right arm tics a couple of times. This is all a getting bit weird.
Daria turns to me with an earnest look on her face.
“Have a listen through the wall between your two flats. Bet you’ll hear something for sure.”
“Daria!” a voice shouts and bounces all the way along the corridor. A woman with dark hair is leaning out of a faraway flat. “I need your help with the twins!”
“Got to go,” says Daria. “But we’ll catch up. Tell me what you can hear.”
I watch her go. As soon as the slap-slap of her trainers fades away and I’m alone, I can’t help myself. I lean the side of my head against the red gloss of Flat 6B’s door, and listen… to silence.
“JoJo! I thought you’d got lost,” says Dad, appearing out of the open doorway of our flat. “What are you doing?”
“No, I mean… it’s just that I thought I heard a funny noise,” I lie lamely. “But it was nothing.”
“Well, we’ll get used to all the new sights and sounds in no time,” Dad says cheerfully. “So, ready to see your new home?”
“Yeah, sure,” I mumble, walking away from Flat 6B, with one last wondering glance.
CHAPTER FOUR
Yesterday, the inside of our new flat seemed as grey and gloomy as the fog outside. With practically a fort of cardboard boxes everywhere, the place had felt about as cosy as the warehouse at Dad’s old work. All we were missing was a forklift truck.
But Dad rigged up his phone and speakers and we had a playlist and takeaway pizza to keep us going while we unpacked. And he denied it, but I think Dad stayed up the whole night to fix the living room so it looked more homey. I woke up to see all our familiar stuff set out: the TV and games console, the cabinet with all the books and framed photos and Dad’s old CDs, the piano all dusted and polished.
“I won’t be long,” Dad says now as he fastens his tie. “The interview should take about an hour and I’ll be back by lunchtime.”
I’m not sure how Dad will get on at this particular interview. His suit and shirt are a bit crumpled and neither of us could find the iron.
“The spare keys are on a hook by the front door,” Dad carries on. “But obviously you’re not going anywhere. Now are you sure you’ll be okay, JoJo?”
“Dad, I’m nearly twelve. I’ll be fine!” I tell him from the sofa, as Spike runs up my arm and nuzzles into my neck.
“Cool. Well, there’s leftover pizza if you’re hungry, and call me if you need me. Promise?” says Dad.
“Promise,” I tell him.
He’s just about to go when he stops, adding one more order.
